Home For Christmas
by Johnnydspiratequeen
Summary: A look at Sherlock and John's first Christmas after Reichenbach and again after the great hiatus. ANGST with a nice resolve.
1. Chapter 1

**__**_(A/N: So I thought, "hey, why not write a little something for Christmas, huh? That'll be fun" and then my brain gave me this. And I just couldn't rest until I wrote it out. I intend for this to be a 2 part deal and the second part should be up before too long -maybe by the end of the week- so please, read, review, and stick around :D) _

**Home for Christmas**

**part 1**

Sherlock staggered tiredly into his tiny flat, pressing his back against the door to force it closed against the blizzard that was picking up outside. He unwrapped the scarf from around his nose and mouth before switching on the lights with numb fingers. The bare bulb in the center of the ceiling flickered before washing the room in wan yellow light. Sherlock set about starting a fire and, as an afterthought, turned on the radiator which sat by his bed.

Dropping down onto the couch in a flurry of dust, he began to remove his gloves and dig his mobile out of his pocket. "No news," read the message from Mycroft, dated December 24th. Today. Christmas Eve. Sherlock let his head drop to the back of the couch with a sigh. His first Christmas Eve away from John. His first Christmas Eve being dead. He ran his hand over his face, prickly, he needed to shave.

He sat in silence, listening to his radiator clank into life and the Russian winter batter against the door. He had forgotten it was the holiday season. The only thing to remind him of the passage of time was impending frostbite and the daily advancement of Moran and his men. He'd been in Moscow for a week now and it was only a matter of time before they would sniff him out and he'd be off to another country.

There was a tight feeling in his chest, an ache. A blond ache about five-foot, seven inches tall. It would have been humorous, if it weren't so despairing. Just a couple years ago, back when he was another man, that Sherlock Holmes who lived day to day and had nothing worth anything except his work would have enjoyed this. It all would have seemed like a grand adventure to that naive man.

He wondered what John was doing, where he was, who he was with. He wondered if he was happy. He was probably with Sarah by now. Mycroft had assured him that John was still living at their Baker Street address but what if he had brought _her_ there? Would he have done that? Could he be so cruel? Not intentionally. It wasn't as if he knew what Sherlock had whispered to him last Christmas on the sofa. Last Christmas. God, he wished he could go back to that now. It was the best Christmas he had ever had.

-John-

Making conversation with Sarah was much harder than John had anticipated. Despite the time they had spent together, their relationship hadn't advanced much further than friends and John wasn't sure where he wanted this to go. Hell, he wasn't sure about anything nowadays. Not since...well. Since it happened. And Sarah was looking at him like she was expecting an answer. He'd zoned out again.

"John?"

"Christ, I'm sorry," he apologized, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I did it again, didn't I?"

She smiled gently and put a hand over his. She had been so understanding about everything and nothing but generous. Why couldn't John feel anything for her? It wasn't fair to her and it just made him angry with himself. Sherlock was dead and missing him so terribly that it made him sick, wasn't going to bring him back. He would have to learn to accept it and forget about last Christmas. Forget about...

"Sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, yes. No. I really don't know." He laughed half-heartedly and ran his hand through his hair. The embers of the fire glowed as it crackled merrily and John couldn't help but be reminded-

"No...you know what? I shouldn't be ruining your evening," he said, rising to his feet, "It's not anything you're doing. You're lovely, I just..."

"John. I understand, okay?" Sarah replied, "It's bound to be difficult for you since...Anyway, go home John. Take it easy."

He smiled weakly with terse nod, feeling his eyes going hot and prickly. He blinked back the sensation as she showed him out, muttering a "Happy Christmas," as he shuffled out the door. With an uneasy feeling inside him, he decided to forgo a cab for the underground. Not tonight, he thought, too many memories.

He watched the couples sitting around him, laden with last minute gifts and laughing into their Styrofoam cups of coffee. Happy. No wonder, it was the "happiest season of all" for everyone else. No, that's not fair. Surely there were other people who had just lost the most important person in their lives. God, John. When did it come to this?

Mrs. Hudson caught him on his way up the stairs. He knew she would. She had been so worried about him these long months.

"I'm having some of the girls over for cider and bridge if you'd care to join us...?"

John plastered on a friendly smile. "No thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Thought I'd make it an early night. Win some for me, okay?"

There was no fooling her. John knew it. She knew it. But mercifully, she let it drop with a "Happy Christmas" as John ascended the stairs. He tossed back the pleasantry and shut the door to 221b behind him. He closed the door and leaned against it, fully taking in the cold, barren room.

It was such a far cry from last Christmas that it felt like a punch in the chest. He hadn't even bothered to decorate this year. What would have been the point? No one else would see it but him and seeing everything the way it had been that perfect night...he couldn't stand it. Not now, when it still hurt so bad. He wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

Snow drifted down quietly outside and for a moment, John headed for the sofa. And stopped. No, not there. Anywhere but where he had told him, whispered it. Sherlock thought he was asleep but he heard. If only John had worked up the courage to tell him before he...but would it be easier now or harder? Thinking of what might have been or remembering what did? He swore he wouldn't let himself do this on Christmas but tears nevertheless found their way down his cheeks and he was left to do what he hadn't done since the night of.

He passed like a ghost through his cold house, empty house, until he was turning the knob to Sherlock's bedroom door and stumbling inside. He grabbed the shirt that had belonged to him, the purple one. That was his favorite and it smelled like him the most. He fell down onto the bed that his will had left exactly as it was and curled up into a tight ball. John shivered in the stale, frigid air and breathed deeply into the shirt, letting his sobs drown out the sounds of "I'll Be Home For Christmas" issuing from downstairs.

-Sherlock-

Sherlock dug around in his bag of essentials that he toted with him from place to place, fingers desperately searching for the familiar wool. He tugged it free of his own things and brought the soft beige jumper up to his nose. It still smelled like him, barely, but it was there. And John smelled like home because home was John. He closed his eyes and let the memories of last Christmas cover him like a blanket, his fingers idly stroking the fibers of the jumper.

-Last Christmas-

John had decided that he and Sherlock were going to have a proper Christmas. Even if they did end up fighting crime right up until Christmas Eve night...which they did. They came in laughing, as per usual, bags of Chinese take away in hand. John lit a fire and switched on the Christmas tree (he had actually gotten Sherlock to help him pick it out and decorate it- a feat in and of itself) and helped Sherlock grab the eat-off trays.

They ate and laughed-and drank a bit- and John felt more at home than he had since his parents had passed. Sherlock seemed to be truly enjoying himself and that rare smile (the one that gives him dimples) had been adorning his face all night. John loved him so much sometimes that it was hard to breathe.

They finished the evening by watching every Christmas movie known to man (John had forced Sherlock to after he admitted to having seen not a single one) and drinking tea on the sofa. They had made it about half-way through John's pre-approved list of films when Sherlock noticed he had stopped making comments. He glanced over and saw John with his head tipped forward, eyes closed and making the slightest snoring sound.

Sherlock grinned despite himself and nudged him with his elbow. "Hey, you're not getting out of this so easily, Dr. Watson. This was all some sort of ruse, wasn't it?"

John, jostled by the nudge, slipped down until his head came to rest soundly on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock froze. John dozed on. Holding his hands out so as not to disturb him, Sherlock waited for the pounding of his own heart to wake John. It didn't work. It appeared that he was in for the long haul. Sherlock carefully settled back and let his arm drape protectively over his sleeping flatmate.

An errant strand of dark blond hair tickled his nose and Sherlock lifted his head slightly and kissed it back into place, his fingers curling tighter around him. "I love you, John," he whispered quietly into his hair, "Did you know that? I adore you."

And John heard. He also heard the other man's heartbeats slow and his breaths grow deep. His fingers curled in Sherlock's shirt, the purple one, and pressed a soft kiss to a sliver of bared chest.

_I'll be home for Christmas _

_Where the love light gleams _

_I'll be home for Christmas _

_If only in my dreams _


	2. Chapter 2

**Home For Christmas part 2 **

John couldn't believe it was that time of year again. Hadn't he just done this? And this year was worse. This year would be harder than ever.

It had been three years since. His third Christmas without Sherlock. He didn't even bother with decorating anymore. He had tried a tree last year but it only served to depress him every time he walked past it. It had been taken down two weeks before Christmas. He did set up the few Christmas cards he received; Mike, Lestrade, Molly, Harry…

Harry had asked him to spend Christmas Eve and morning with her but she and Clara had recently reconciled and were likely to want a nice Christmas alone. John was proud of Harry for being seven months sober and he really hoped their relationship worked this go round. He didn't want to bring down the celebration with his general morose appearance and he'd be lying if he said seeing the two of them together and happy wouldn't make his heart ache in envy. It was better for all of them if he just stayed out of it.

Mrs. Hudson was still around anyway and she could do with a little company. John had been running her errands ever since she slipped on some ice and hurt her already dodgy hip. John himself wasn't much better off. His leg had started to act up again, more fiercely than before, and so he leaned heavily on his cane. Sometimes his hands shook so badly that he couldn't hold onto a teacup. Still, when Christmas Eve came about, John limped his way into to Tesco and battled mobs of shoppers for Mrs. Hudson's groceries.

Everything was harder than it should be. The lights and the scads of people made him feel claustrophobic and even the sight of the Chip & Pin machines only served to bring back memories.

_'You had a row with a machine?' _

John winced and shook his head, shuffling forward in the queue. That all seemed like a different lifetime, like he had been someone else entirely. Maybe he had. He knew he would never feel that alive again. Even Sarah, God rest her soul, hadn't managed to bring the spark back. He felt so guilty for thinking it. She had only been buried for four months and yet the wound of her loss had begun to heal faster than Sherlock's.

He had missed her terribly, still did. Everyone had been so tense around him since the day of her accident (horrible collision, crushed the top of the car completely). John knew that he was on suicide watch and it wasn't as if he hadn't considered it before.

He had held the gun in his hand for a solid two hours the first time, just after Sherlock's death. He managed to rally the strength to put it down because it was just too easy; the coward's way out. And what would Sherlock say if he gave up now? That thought alone was enough to bring him back from the edge. It was also Sherlock's voice in his head that kept him from doing it the second time, about a week after Sarah's funeral. He was a soldier and he was brave. Sherlock told him to be brave.

The snow had started to come down hard when he left the store and he didn't even see the man that he violently crashed into.

"Sorry. God, sorry," John muttered, reaching out to help the man up. He was bundled in rags and had dropped most of the books he had been lugging about. The man didn't reply and set about snatching up his belongings from the snow with trembling hands. John bent to help, his leg screaming in protest and got a good look at a few of the books. Odd things like: Rare Plants of the Himalayas and what appeared to be a biography of Mendeleev.

"Are you selling these?" John asked and the man snatched his books back.

"Won't be getting much for them now," he grumbled angrily, wiping the snow off with a gloved hand.

"Christ, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…look," he dug into his pocket and pulled out five quid for the man, pushing it into his hand, "Happy Christmas."

...

His cab driver had dark curly hair so John stared out the window. John had always loved London around Christmas but last year he had nearly had an emotional fit when some carol singers came knocking. This year, he stared at the lights and tinsel and felt numb. In some ways, it was worse.

John kicked the grey sludge from the bottoms of his shoes before trudging up to 221. He juggled the bags while rummaging for his keys and nearly lost the eggs in the process. Mrs. Hudson had left her own door unlocked for John, being bedridden the way she was, and he set the bags out on the counter.

"John?" she called from her room and he went to stand in the open doorway.

"It's me. Just got back with the shopping."

The heavily medicated woman smiled affectionately up at him, "Thank you, luv. Staying round for tea?"

John nearly declined but then remembered that he had nothing better to do than sit by himself and wait for it to be over. "Sure."

He helped his landlady up and into her chair in the sitting room before ducking into the kitchen to set the kettle to boil. They sat together and watched A Christmas Carol, chatting aimlessly until Mrs. Hudson started to drift to sleep while sitting up. John helped her back to bed, chuckling gently and proceeded to do her dishes. He grimaced, rubbing at his sore shoulder. It always acted up in the cold weather. John felt about twice his age as he slipped quietly out of Mrs. Hudson's flat and mounted the stairs with a groan to 221b.

That was, until he heard a knock at the front door. "You've got to be kidding me," he said tiredly, running a hand over his face. All he wanted to do was go to bed.

Nevertheless, John grumbled his way back to the door and swung it open. He was surprised to find the man from before, the one with the books, standing on the front stoop. The man fidgeted slightly, still clutching his merchandise.

"Oh," said John dumbly, trying to figure out what exactly he was doing there, "it's you."

"I wanted to apologize for before," said the man with a hoarse cough, "and to thank you for the money."

"That's not really necessary. 'Tis the season and all that," he replied, running a hand awkwardly through his hair.

"Er…would you like to take a look at my books?"

John really didn't have any interest in the type of books he had to offer but he felt sorry for the man. He appeared to be homeless or else very poor. He had his scarf pulled up high and he was wearing a toboggan and thick glasses. It was almost impossible to tell his age but his voice sounded gruff and tired when he spoke and he had a grayish beard. John wondered if he should invite him in to warm up. It was a freezing night and his coat was threadbare. He seemed nice enough and what did John have to lose, really?

"Um. Would you like to come up to my flat and we can talk about it? I can fix you something hot to drink…?"

"That would be very kind of you, thank you," the man replied and eagerly followed John in and up the stairs.

"Have a seat anywhere you like," John said as he switched on the lights and headed into the kitchen to check his supplies. No tea, plenty of coffee.

"Sorry, I don't have any tea. How do you like your coffee?" John asked, poking his head around the corner.

"Black, please. Two sugars," said Sherlock Holmes. John fainted.

...

Sherlock hadn't planned on John fainting. It hadn't crossed his mind at all. Luckily, three years on the run had kept his reflexes sharp and he managed to catch John before he hit the floor. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he cradled John's head in his lap and simply looked at him for a while.

He had aged since he had been gone. He had lost weight, gotten paler and had a touch of grey at his temples. He looked exhausted. It made Sherlock's heart clench in his chest. From the state of the jumper he was wearing, John hadn't done any shopping. _Not planning on prolonged existence then. _

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock whispered to the unconscious man in his arms, leaning forward until he could brush his nose against John's.

It hadn't been easy on Sherlock either. After being hunted like an animal across five continents, he had finally managed to take down all of Moran's henchmen. Meaning, of course, that Moran himself still remained. He was like his partner in the fact that he liked to keep his hands clean. He had had thirty men at his disposal, those skilled in martial arts and trained snipers. However, Sherlock knew that Moran wouldn't stop at that. He planned on taking Sherlock down himself.

It would be a revenge killing for Moriarty's death. He blamed Sherlock and would stop at nothing to take him down. His ideal target had of course been John. It was completely transparent to him that he was the most important person to Sherlock. An eye for an eye, as it were. This was the reason Sherlock decided to "die".

He needed to keep John at a distance to keep him safe but he knew that if he let him know, John would stop at nothing to come with him. It became clear what he had to do but he never expected it to take this long. He honestly hadn't expected to survive the ordeal. Mycroft helped him arrange the whole thing. He had put his brother in charge of being his eyes and ears, for the assassins and for John.

In London, John was easy to reach. He was a skilled army man but not the most observant individual, especially not when grieving. Mycroft had cameras everywhere, even managed one inside the flat with John being none the wiser. He would inform Sherlock of John's safety and nothing more. If he had told him how poorly he had got on, Sherlock would have abandoned the whole thing and came home immediately.

After the last henchman had jumped out a window after Sherlock and become impaled on a fence, Sherlock finally allowed himself to return to London. He didn't bother telling Mycroft about it; he would find out anyway and disapprove no doubt. Sherlock didn't care anymore.

He had initially planned to take out Moran before he came back to John but he couldn't resist spying on him. Being so close was torturous; he just had to see him. And so he donned a disguised and unintentionally bumped right into him outside Tesco. Then it was all over. One look at his face and Sherlock was done in. Moran would just have to wait and then maybe John could help him. Maybe it could be just like old times.

That is if he didn't hate him. Sherlock would understand if he did but he didn't think he could handle it. He knew he couldn't.

Sherlock touched John's face, gently, reverently. He was memorizing this moment, John's face, just in case this was all he ever got. His finger lightly followed the slope of his nose, barely skittering over his lips before retreating back to his eyelids, touching his sandy brown lashes and ghosting over the delicate skin underneath. He brushed the back of his fingers across his cheeks until John started to stir. Halting, he stared, terrified of what was to come.

...

"Nnghh," John heard himself groan as he attempted to regain consciousness. He almost didn't want to. This was so nice, wherever he was. It was warm and comforting but he couldn't resist the niggling feeling that he should be freaking out right now, for whatever reason. He opened his eyes. And there was the reason, staring at him with frightened blue eyes.

"My apologies, John," said the upside down apparition, "I didn't expect such a severe reaction."

"Sh'lock…" John muttered, his groggy brain struggling to comprehend what was surely a dream.

"It was stupid of me, really. I didn't think…Dead for three years and I just pop in out of nowhere. Really wasn't the time for dramatics. I was just too…"

Whatever Sherlock was about to say was silenced by John's lips crashing into his, his arms coming up to pull him down. John forced his fingers into his hair, feeling the curls that twined around them. They were real. He opened his mouth and kissed him hard like he was drowning, felt his heat, the pressure of his lips and that was real too. _He_ was real. He felt Sherlock's hands clutching at him, fisting in his jumper and felt his lips part and move, kissing him back.

When they finally broke apart they were gasping, clinging to one another so as not to float away. John sat up then, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. The years had changed him as well. He was thinner than ever, stubble had begun to form on his chin. His eyes were framed by darkness but gleaming radiantly at John. He broke into a smile then, his hand coming up to the side of John's face, fingertips rubbing their way into his hair.

John returned the sentiment, bringing him closer until their foreheads pressed together. And then he laughed until he was crying and dissolving against him, his head coming to rest on Sherlock's chest and his hands twisting the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock held him until he was finished, pressing his cheek against the top of John's head and rocking him gently.

Sherlock whispered things, comforting, horribly repetitive things and pulled John into him as if to put him right back into the void he left. John's sobs grew quieter, his shaking subsiding until he sat, curled and sniffling in his embrace.

"How?" John asked, not lifting his head from the damp patch he had made on Sherlock's shirt.

He had known it was coming. Sherlock proceeded to stroke gentle circles into John's back with his thumb and dictate an abbreviated account of his past three years, promising to tell him in full when there was more time. At some point during the speech, John grew rigid and silent in his arms and Sherlock finished, waiting patiently for the anger that was sure to come.

"You told _Mycroft_ where you were?"

To be honest, that was not the question he had expected. "Yes. He helped arrange my travelling from country to country and delivered news."

John stood up suddenly and backed away from him. "Mycroft was in on the whole thing and you didn't even tell me you were _alive_?" His eyes narrowed, sparking with fury.

Sherlock rose to his feet, feeling like his legs were made of jelly. "John, it was necessary. You know you would have only wanted to come along and I couldn't endanger you like that."

"You trusted your brother. Your brother that you don't even bloody like and left me alone for three years. Three whole years, thinking you were dead!"

Oh no. No, no. This was going off in a horrid direction. Sherlock's heart started to pound, his mouth going dry with panic. "That wasn't my thinking at all. I trust you above everyone else, John. You know that's true, you must, but there is currently a man who in his day was the British army's finest marksman and he would like nothing more than to kill you. Staying beside you would have only put a giant bulls-eye on your chest."

"Oh right. I see. So you decided to go gallivanting around the globe and leave me here suffering in my own personal Hell, is that it?" John was shaking again, but this time from pure rage.

Sherlock's heart jerked like whiplash. "So you think it was easy for me? You think I liked leaving you?" His eyes began to burn and prickle. "You think I bloody _enjoyed_ living day to day not knowing where you were or if you were okay or that Moran at any minute could shoot you down on the street and it would be all my fault? All my fault and just because I _love_ you. He wants you dead because I love you. Do you see? Do you get it?"

His throat constricted painfully on the last word and he stared at John through rapidly blurring eyes, blinking them fiercely and then looking away. John watched in silence as the man in front of him began to break. It was like a punch to the gut. God, he didn't want this. If he lived to be a hundred, he never wanted to see Sherlock Holmes cry again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, taking a step forward with weighted feet.

"No. Don't apologize," Sherlock said, wiping furiously at the hot tears that had begun to overflow, "I knew it would come. Ever since the moment we met, I knew it was only a matter of time until you'd you wise up and get tired of me." He kicked his discarded disguise out of his way and started for the door, "I should've let you be. I'm sorry."

John latched onto his wrist with a grip like iron. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" Sherlock turned and looked at him in surprise. John's face was graver than he had ever seen it, dark blue eyes burning into his own. "If you ever, ever leave this flat without me ever again, I swear to God I will hunt you down and bring you back."

These were some of the most beautiful words ever to grace his lips. At least by Sherlock's standards. Sherlock stared down at him with darkened eyes, light glinting off his wet lashes before daring to touch John's face. He rested his hand gently against his cheek, brushing it delicately with his thumb. John let out a sigh and leaned into him, his arms coming up to wrap around him and tug him down.

He couldn't fight this anymore. John just didn't have it in him to be angry whilst staring a bloody miracle in the face. No, he didn't need the anger. He let it go. It slipped right out of him the instant Sherlock brought his lips down to John's, soft and reassuring. He let his lips go warm and pliant, slowly returning the pressure, sweet euphoria sweeping over him.

John pushed against him until Sherlock complied and flattened himself against the door, John stepping in between his legs. "Sherlock…" he nearly moaned when their lips parted, "Oh God. I love you. I love you so much."

He tilted his head and rocked up into a deeper kiss, parting his lips and darting out a tongue to tentatively touch Sherlock's bottom lip. With a small sound, Sherlock opened up to him, eagerly accepting the slippery heat of John's tongue into his own mouth. Sighing contentedly, Sherlock weaved his fingers through short sandy hair and proceeded to snog John within an inch of his life.

John's mouth left his own to trail burning kisses down the length of his neck, his fingers working to undo his shirt as he went. "Jo-ohn…" Sherlock gasped, tightening his fingers in John's hair to get his attention.

He stopped immediately, his face flushed a rather becoming shade of pink. "What?" he asked, blown pupils darting back and forth over Sherlock's face, "D-did you not want to- um..?"

John started to back away, looking embarrassed and a very flustered Sherlock jumped in. "No, no, that's not what I meant," Sherlock grabbed his hands and held them close, "There's nothing that I would like more but at the moment, we are in very mortal peril."

John snorted, "Aren't we always?"

Sherlock felt his lips twitch into a smile, "True enough but there is a very small window of opportunity in which to do what it is we have to do."

"And what is that?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. You'll have to see it for yourself."

"Okay, this is a bit frightening."

"You love it."

"God, yes."

_(A/N: Thank you for reading and being patient! I may do an epilogue for anyone who isn't familiar with the events that occur in "The Empty House". Tell me what you think!) _


	3. Chapter 3

**Home for Christmas**

**Epilogue**

"M-mind telling me…" John said between gasps, "where we're going?"

"We're almost there. Keep up," Sherlock rather unhelpfully replied as he raced on ahead down yet another rather seedy looking alley.

They had been running and running for a half hour and John had the sneaking suspicion that they were going in circles. "Are you sure you know where we're going?"

"Have I ever been wrong?"

"…I'll not dignify that with a response."

Sherlock ignored this and rounded the corner, facing a small fenced in courtyard. He jumped the fence and undid the latch from the other side, swinging the squeaky gate open for John who breathlessly stumbled through.

"Got a bit out of shape I suppose," John chuckled. Sherlock smiled but held a finger up to his mouth in a shushing gesture. John nodded and watched as Sherlock knelt by the back door of the building connecting with the courtyard. He pulled his lock-picking kit from his coat's breast pocket and set to work on the door's rusty lock.

"Looks about a hundred years old," John whispered, peering over Sherlock's shoulder. He fiddled and jabbed at the lock for a good few minutes, cursing at its stiff gears. John, who had finally had enough, lowered himself into his fighting stance and charged the door with his good shoulder, startling Sherlock backwards when the lock snapped and the door banged open.

He gave John a look that was half reprimanding and half admiring and took the hand proffered to him before squaring up and kissing him hard on the mouth. John flailed just slightly before Sherlock quickly released him and darted inside the house, his hand closed tightly around John's wrist.

John followed blindly in the darkness as Sherlock led him up a flight of stairs. They were halfway up the groaning steps when one of them snapped in two, sending Sherlock's ankle through the hole. He yelped and fell forward, John falling against him and groping at the wall for support.

"Shit, are you okay?" John asked but Sherlock was already wrenching his leg free and hobbling the rest of the way up the stairs.

"Come on, John. There's no time to lose."

John shook his head and followed with a huge grin on his face. It felt so good to be back to this again, back to life. With caution, Sherlock pushed open the door at the top of the stairs. It let out a shrill squeak as it allowed them inside. John, sensing an element of danger, drew out his gun and switched off the safety.

"We've timed it just right, John," Sherlock said with an air of triumph as he hurried towards one of the windows on the opposite side of the room. He lifted the tattered curtains and peered out, letting out an excited sound before calling John over.

It took a moment for John to process what he was seeing. "…That's Baker Street…" he said slowly, "That's 221b then how…? Sherlock, are we in that old yellow building across the street?"

"Precisely."

"But wh- oh my Dear God! What the hell?"

Sherlock chuckled beside him. Sherlock, the same man whose silhouette he was clearly seeing across the street in their sitting room. The shade was drawn and the lights were on, Sherlock's very recognizable form casting a shadow against it.

"I don't understand…if you're here, then what is that?"

"A bust."

"A bust?"

"A bust of myself. A very skilled Frenchman made it for me. It is quite a remarkable likeness. I'll have to show you when-

"CHRIST! It moved. It bloody moved! Why is it doing that?"

"Because Mycroft is controlling it. Very soon, Colonel Sebastian Moran will be in this very room with a sniper rifle and aiming for what he believes to be my head. Lestrade and some men are positioned down Baker Street. We'll catch him and he'll be arrested in minutes."

"Brilliant!"

"One of my most ingenious ideas, yes."

Just then, there was a creaking sound downstairs and just as quick, Sherlock had his arm around John's waist and was pulling him back into the dark corner of the room. They hid quietly in the shadow of an old wardrobe and counted the steps as the would be assassin mounted the stairs. He paused, just missing where Sherlock had fell and pushed his way into the room.

Moran was in his late thirties and from what John could tell, he had short blond hair and a few days worth of stubble on his chin. He was taller than John but not quite as tall as Sherlock and he was sturdily built. The most striking thing about him, however, was a long scar trailing from above his right eyebrow to the middle of his cheek. His eye appeared to be unharmed but had an unmistakable squint.

He held his breath, grip tightening on his revolver as Moran set up his gun by the window. He peeked out, adjusted it a few times, and got low and ready to shoot. Sherlock's grip tightened around John which managed to convey 'NOW!'

Sherlock leapt out of the shadows and onto Moran's back, wrestling him to the ground and knocking over his rifle in the process. Moran was strong though and managed to turn the tables with a sharp elbow to Sherlock's stomach. He was beginning to reach for his gun when John brought his own down hard on the top of his head. Moran's face went slack and he fell forward in a heap.

Sherlock coughed and pushed the man's dead weight off of him. "Are you alright?" John asked, kneeling down beside him and looking frantically for any damage.

"John, have I told you that you're the most brilliant person I've ever met?" Sherlock asked, looking incredibly doe-eyed.

"…Did you hit your head?"

"A bit but I'm serious."

John laughed softly, his hand coming around to rest on the back of Sherlock's neck and pull him closer. Their lips met with a sigh, warm insistent heat creeping out to fill the rest of their bodies. Sherlock's fingers wound into John's hair and he tipped his head, diving in for a deeper kiss. John moaned, quite forgetting where they were and pulled Sherlock down on top of him.

"Ehem."

They startled apart, hair in disarray and lips flushed as they stared up at Lestrade with foggy eyes. Lestrade who was in the doorway with two other police officers and looking equal parts amused and embarrassed.

"Finally decided to consummate it, then?" he asked with a sly grin, "Not the ideal location but hey, whatever you like."

"Don't you have a mass-murderer to arrest?" Sherlock sniped, rising to his feet and patting down his hair into a semblance of respectability.

"Be nice. You're lucky I'm even here on Christmas Eve. Good Lord, has he been pistol whipped?"

"Sort of, yeah," John replied a bit sheepishly.

"Right. Good on you," Lestrade muttered, "Alright, boys, let's bring him in."

…

Sherlock and John did in fact wait until the next day to "consummate it" because surprisingly, going through every emotion known to mankind and then running in circles and catching a criminal will really take it out of you.

They also paid a rather tearful visit to Mrs. Hudson who nearly had a heart attack and then insisted that they all stay for dinner with her and her friends. All in all, it was a fantastic Christmas. John wore a ridiculously festive jumper and Sherlock actually cracked a few smiles. But, his favorite part by far was the nighttime when they lit a fire and watched Christmas films, curled up on the sofa.

"I'll Be Home for Christmas," drifted quietly up from Mrs. Hudson's flat.

_Christmas Eve will find me _

_Where the love light gleams_

* * *

><p><em>(AN: And that's that! Thank you so much for reading! You guys have been so great and I hope you all had a wonderful holiday!) _


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